


Vallasdahlen

by QueenofEden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Cousland (Dragon Age) Backstory, Cousland Typical Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofEden/pseuds/QueenofEden
Summary: The stones of Highever’s great hall are rough beneath Olympia’s palm, sharp and almost biting. They feel wrong, or she does.
Relationships: Female Cousland & Female Mahariel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	Vallasdahlen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/gifts).

> it's DAO's 10th birthday today and i was fully in my feelings about mine and @rhoswenmahariel's girls, so i figured in honor of the occasion i would polish up this old, unpublished fic and finally let it see the light of day
> 
> takes place a few months post game, but pre-awakening, and is set, as always, in our join canon where both a cousland and a mahariel warden survived their origins and defeated the blight along with alistair. also there are some brief references to the events of dragonagefun's return to castle cousland mod, which i have absorbed into my personal canon.
> 
> happy birthday dao, i love u very much!

The stones of Highever’s great hall are rough beneath Olympia’s palm, sharp and almost biting. They feel wrong, or she does. This place that should be home, the familiar banners swinging lazily from the rafters, the fire burning large and warm in the hearth, and yet she can’t help but feel a stranger here. It’s been so long since home meant anything more than a tent, the soft murmur of voices around a fire, and a hand, warm and calloused by bow and lute strings, in her own, that perhaps she does not remember what the word truly means anymore.

It is in those most private, dark corners of her thoughts – the ones she daren’t visit often for fear of losing herself to them completely – Olympia almost wishes they could have torn the whole castle down, stone by Maker-forsaken stone, and salted the earth. That something new would be built overtop the ruins, something that didn’t still hold the echoes of bloodstains, of sooty black smoke and screams. She thinks that she would have done it with her bare hands if she could have, if doing so would have soothed even a small portion of the yawning, wretched ache inside her.

It wouldn’t have, she knows that; knows that perhaps nothing ever will. Fergus – to his credit – has done a remarkable job restoring the castle to its former glory in her absence. Much as it pains her to be here now, it is nothing compared to seeing it as it was that first day she set eyes on it after the blight, when they had found the last of Howe’s faithful still encamped inside, his sniveling weasel of a third-born barricaded in their parent’s own chambers with his whores. 

Fergus had delivered Thomas the killing blow, she’d owed him at least that much. Olympia had enough blood on her hands as it was, so much that she felt heavy with it. A quiet rage had burned inside her brother that day, where she had felt oddly hollow. Not that she could begrudge him his vengeance. He’d had far less time to reconcile his grief than her, after all. He had chosen to pick through the corpses himself, looking for any family heirlooms they’d tried to pocket in their last moments, kicking viciously at them with his good leg whenever he found what he was searching for and sometimes even when he didn’t. Olympia had never had cause to fear her brother – her jovial, often callous, yet always smiling, unfailingly kind brother – but that day something hardened in him, something incalculable, yet unavoidable and familiar, too. To see it in him filled her heart with lead.

There’s nothing of that grief in his face now as he quickly rounds the doorway to greet her, a little grayer, and with that persistent limp he’ll likely carry the rest of his life, but wholly himself. When he finally embraces her it is just on the edge of too tight, but Olympia finds she doesn’t mind. She simply presses her face into his shoulder and breathes deep the smells of earth, and sea, and family. He even pulls Rhoswen into a brief but firm hug, which startles her enough Olympia can’t help but laugh. He looks sheepish even as he releases her, realizing too late that he may have overstepped, but Rhoswen simply places a comforting hand on his arm and offers him a smile which he immediately returns.

“It’s good to see you both back whole and hale,” he says, squeezing both their shoulders in earnest. “I worried you wouldn’t make it back in time. To be quite honest, I was half afraid the wardens would decide to keep you in Weisshaupt forever.” He means it in jest, but Olympia and Rhoswen share an uneasy look between them. Fergus doesn’t seem to notice. “It’ll be nice to finally breathe some real life back into the castle, anyway. Though, I wish it were under less grim circumstances.”

Something passes over his features, there and gone again in an instant, but Olympia recognizes that haunted, hollow look to his eyes – however briefly it had been there – as the same one that sometimes gazes back at her from her own looking glass.

“You’re sure there’s no convincing you to change your minds?” Fergus is saying in response to some answer Rhoswen had given while Olympia was lost in her own thoughts. “The inn is lovely, but we’ve got plenty of guest rooms, even Olympia’s old room –”

“No,” Olympia snaps, far too harshly, she gauges, if the immediate hurt look on her brother’s face is any indication. She frowns in apology, softens her tone when she tries again. “I’m sorry, Fergus, I just… I  _ can’t _ .”

He offers her a sad, half-smile and nods. “Perhaps just tonight? At least until supper is ready?” he asks, and then, “I’ve missed you, baby sister.”

Olympia swallows thickly around a sudden swell of emotion, hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “It’s hardly been a month, Fergus,” she says tightly, trying for levity and nearly regretting it were it not for the small smile on Fergus’s face. 

“Too long,” he says. “Besides, we do have quite a few things to discuss. Not to mention a lot of catching up to do.” Olympia tries to force a smile to match his own even as a wave of guilt courses through her. She cannot even imagine how hard it must be for Fergus, being locked up here in this place with all the ghosts she herself has tried so desperately to escape. Even the pleasant facade he wears -- for her sake and his own -- does nothing but make her feel worse, make her feel weak for lacking the strength to do the same.

Fergus claps his hands, jolting Olympia out of her reverie once again. “Should we start by giving Rhoswen here the grand tour?” he asks expectantly, and Olympia flounders.

“I – I don’t –” Could she? Even the walk up the worn stone path to the gate had taken nearly all of her willpower to accomplish. Could she really parade about the grounds and make small talk? Pointing out every room, every immaculately re-decorated nook and cranny and pretend that nothing had happened there?  _ Ah yes, you’ve done a marvelous job scrubbing the blood from the grout, dear brother. One can hardly tell there was a massacre here at all! _ The thought in itself is enough to make her stomach roil. 

It is by Andraste’s sweet grace that Rhoswen chooses that moment to place a steadying hand on her arm and say to Fergus, “That’s very kind of you to offer, but maybe something else –”

“No!” Olympia says very suddenly, startling Rhoswen, Fergus, and herself alike. “No, you -- you should go. Let Fergus take you.”

Rhoswen levels her with a familiar look: the lift of her brow, the quick twitch of an ear. Olympia offers her a wan smile and gives the hand on her arm a reassuring squeeze.

“I’ll be fine. _ ”  _

”Perhaps Rhoswen is right, it was only a suggestion after all – ” Fergus interrupts, but Olympia waves his words away with an irritated huff.

“Maker’s breath Fergus, I don’t need to be coddled. Go show her where the privy is and all that. I can certainly occupy myself in the meantime.”

Her brother frowns, clearly wanting to argue but knowing better, biting his cheek to stop himself. Instead he turns to Rhoswen. “Well then, My lady? If you’re still interested, I would be honored to be your guide.”

His easy mien draws a small smile out of Rhoswen, but still she turns back to Olympia, concern etched into every crease of her forehead. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” she asks quietly, and Olympia nods, swallowing her pride.

“I’d like to be alone, for now, I think,” she replies, and though the lines on her face never smooth, Rhoswen acquiesces and releases her grip on Olympia’s arm, trading it instead for Fergus’ offered one.

Near beaming, Fergus turns about and takes a few slow steps towards the large side door before stopping again. “Oh,” he says with a snap of his fingers, drawing Olympia’s attention. “Before I forget, I’ve got something for you.” He crosses to the, now solitary, throne centered on the dais and lifts something from the seat: a parcel, wrapped in light parchment paper and tied with string. 

“I didn’t think this was the sort of occasion for gift giving,” Olympia remarks flatly, but takes the package from him anyway. The flimsy wrapping tears easily under her fingers, revealing the plush bundle it had covered. 

Fergus continues, breezing past her comment. “I realize it’s still too warm to be wearing such a thing now but -- ” 

Olympia draws a sharp breath, and with trembling hands shakes out the full length of cloak from its folds. It is an exquisitely crafted thing – a swath of sea-green velvet, lined with soft, grey wolf’s fur and decorated with an intricately carved clasp -- thistles and laurels set in purest silverite. Everything about it is stunning, expensive, and also achingly familiar.

“ _ How? _ ” she asks, unconsciously lifting the cloak to her face and inhaling the faint, lingering scent of her mother’s perfume mixed with cedar wood. The tears she had resisted before return to prick at the corners of her eyes once again. “ _ Where did you –?” _

“Deep in her wardrobe. It seems Howe’s men weren’t quite as thorough as they thought in cleaning us out.” A small crease forms between Fergus’s brows. “I’d meant to find something suitable for her pyre, but this seemed too fine just to waste by burning and I thought – well, I’m sure Mother would have wanted you to have it instead.”

Olympia clutches the thing to her chest protectively, as though someone would come at any moment and dare to wrest it from her arms. She finally manages to force a quiet ‘thank you’ past her lips, to which Fergus simply inclines his head.

“We’ll return soon,” he tells her, touching Rhoswen’s shoulder gently to draw her attention back to himself and their awaiting tour. “Look after yourself, will you?”

“Don’t I always?” she replies, minutes after they’d already left her alone. 

\---

Olympia hardly starts at the crack of the door opening, too lost in her own thoughts to even acknowledge whoever deigned to join her in the small chapel. Light as air footsteps pad toward her, and she knows it must be Rhoswen. A moment later, the woman in question joins her, sitting a few spaces down from where Olympia is curled into the farthest corner of a stone pew.

“How did you know I’d be in here?” Olympia asks, eyes flicking to Rhoswen only briefly.

“I didn’t,” Rhoswen admits, accompanied by the creak of leather suggesting a shrug. “But it was one of the only places Fergus didn’t show me. He thought you might be in the library, but we didn’t see you.”

“I tried,” she says quietly, curling her fingers into the edges of her mother’s cloak, pulling it tighter around her shoulders against a chill that exists only under her own skin. The library had been the first place she’d gone, her feet taking her by memory to the place she’d so often found solace as a child, where she could have distracted herself with stories of people and places far away from Highever. The stones there, however, had held too many cruel echoes for her to handle. The lingering imprint of toppled shelves, her childhood treasures burning in the hearth. The unfamiliar rug lying across the floor where her mind remembered the run through form of poor old Aldous, his rheumy eyes staring up at her wide and unblinking. Olympia left before she’d started to retch. Pressed her forehead against the cold wall until the feverish feeling and the churning of her stomach had passed. At least here the only ghosts are those of the soldiers who had died trying to defend it, nameless and faceless to her memory. Her gaze finds Andraste’s holy brazier, burning merrily atop the small dais, and she silently wills the sacred flame to burn the images from her mind until she begins to see spots instead of spectres.

“ _ Olympia? _ ”

Rhoswen’s voice cuts through her thoughts, laced with an urgency that implies it had not been the first time she’d called out to her. Flushing, Olympia turns to face her, blinking away the small dots on her vision. “I’m sorry.”

Mouth drawn into a fine line of worry, Rhoswen waves off her apology. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve… been in a fog of sorts practically since we got here.”

“I -- ” The words  _ ‘I’m fine,’ _ catch in her throat as Olympia bites back the automatic response. Rhoswen knows her too well to believe her. She exhales heavily, slumping in on herself. “It’s just this place. I thought -- I -- I don’t know what I thought.”

Rhoswen stays quiet, looking down at her folded hands in contemplation. there are only so many condolences one can offer before they fall flat after all.

“We don’t have to stay,” she says after a moment. Olympia frowns. “I’m sure Fergus would understand, if he knew how difficult this is for you. We can just go back to Denerim.”

Olympia is shaking her head before Rhoswen has a chance to finish speaking. “No, no I can’t -- I can’t leave him here to tend the funeral, the people, alone I can’t--” She swallows against the lump forming in her throat. “I’ve had enough of abandoning my family when they needed me for one lifetime.” A stray tear finally escapes the corner of her eye and she quickly wipes it away.

Rhoswen scoots closer, placing a comforting hand on Olympia’s knee and looking like she is near tears herself. She opens her mouth, but Olympia hushes her with a rough shake of her head. “I know,  _ I know _ . But it’s how it feels, still, regardless.” Olympia bites the inside of her lip until she tastes blood. From above, the flame catches her gaze again, and Olympia pretends she can feel the warmth of it from here.

“Do you know why Andrastians burn our dead?” Olympia asks quietly, quickly changing the subject. Rhoswen doesn’t look pleased about it, but she shakes her head in response.

“Ah -- no. Not really.”

“The flame,” Olympia says, gesturing to the one in front of them. “After Andraste was captured by Hessarian, the Archon’s wife ordered her tied to a pyre and burned alive. All of her most loyal followers were forced to watch, some even tried to throw themselves onto it to die with her. Of course, it wasn’t really the fire that killed her. That was Hessarian and his Sword of Mercy, but --” she spares Rhoswen, listening politely at her side, an apologetic glance. “Anyway, supposedly the flames cleansed her, and carried her spirit to ‘ _ stand beside the throne of the Maker _ ’ and all that. Naturally, everyone decided they wanted to follow in her footsteps, and so we do. When we die, a Mother lights our pyre with a torch lit from one of these braziers, and everyone’s spirits get to ascend to the Maker’s side, just like Andraste.”

“That’s -- ” Rhoswen pauses, trying to think of a kind word that doesn’t betray her confusion, disinterest, and mild disgust. “Poignant.”

Olympia hums, resting her chin atop her folded knees. “Don’t know how it’s supposed to work without a body, though.” She sighs. “No actual body to burn, no spirit for the fire to carry. Not even any ashes to bring home and put in the crypt to remember anyone by.” Olympia shrugs, Rhoswen shifts uncomfortably. “The Mothers never seem to care though. For them it’s just about the ritual of it all, just burning a pile of someone’s things instead of them and pretending it’s the same thing. It’s what they did for King Maric, and it’s what they’ll do in a few days time for Father and Mother, Oren and Oriana. Very likely it’s what they’ll do for me as well. I’m sure no one will go looking for my body in some dank, darkspawn infested cavern once I’ve gone to my Calling. Guess that probably means it’s all bullshit.”

At a loss, Rhoswen chews her bottom lip, her ear twitching. “I don’t -- perhaps this would be a conversation better suited for Leliana, or maybe Alistair?”

Olympia huffs a quiet laugh, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I know you -- ” Not bothering to finish the thought, Olympia shakes her head, dragging her fingers down her cheeks. “Thanks for listening anyway.”

“Of course,” Rhoswen says earnestly.

“It all must seem so odd to you.”

Rhoswen’s head tilts, matching the curve at the edge of her lips. She still looks at Olympia with concern, a vague sense of unease, but whatever she is thinking, she speaks none of it aloud. Instead she shrugs and says, “Not much strikes me as odd anymore after what we’ve been through.”

This time Olympia does laugh, not for long, but enough to shake a few of the cobwebs from her mind. She lets her feet find the floor and sits with her head tilted back, closing her eyes to the ceiling. 

“I know it’s… it is… difficult,” Rhoswen continues, tentatively filling the silence. “When I -- when my clan lost Tamlen we didn’t have his body either. Not the first time.” Olympia doesn’t open her eyes, but she sticks her hand out and feels for Rhoswen’s until she takes it, her own long fingers intertwining with Rhoswen’s shorter ones. “We mourned, went through the motions, planted his tree. A part of it still felt empty.”

“Creating new life seems much more poignant than just burning a stack of garbage for show.” Olympia opens her eyes then, and gives Rhoswen’s hand a small, gentle squeeze. “Something to plant still, something permanent to remember them by.” With her other hand she touches the softness of the cloak puddled in her lap. 

Silence stretches between them, each lost in their own grief for a brief moment. Olympia can feel the way Rhoswen’s hand clenches hers even tighter, and she returns the gesture. She knows it still isn’t easy for her to speak of Tamlen, remembers the pain that had clung to her like a shroud for days after they’d been attacked by the ghoul she’d claimed had been him. Rhoswen had buried that twisted body, long after she’d thought him lost forever. In the same thought however, she recalls the spike of envy she’d felt at her chance for closure, unfair as it may have been.

“Rhoswen,” Olympia waits for her companion to make a noise in response before continuing. “Do you think, would it be possible for you to -- to plant trees for my family?” Olympia feels her cheeks heat. “Or something? Perhaps not trees, trees get so big. Maybe just flowers? My mother loved flowers, Oriana too.” A beat of silence, and Olympia squeezes her eyes shut in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, that’s probably terribly insensitive of me to ask, I didn’t mean to offend I -- ” Her rambling is cut short by the soft  _ whump _ and pressure of something colliding with her chest. She opens her eyes to see Rhoswen has wrapped her arms around her in a tight embrace. 

“I’d be honored.” Rhoswen whispers, close enough to Olympia’s ear for her to hear the waver of tears in her voice. Taken aback by the reaction, It takes Olympia a second to wrap her arms around Rhoswen’s slender waist in return. It seems every tear she’d held back that day pours out of her now, falling freely down her cheeks and onto the shoulder of Rhoswen’s soft leathers, staining them dark.

“You’re sure?” Olympia mumbles, sniffling, turning her head away from the glare of gold and fire and into Rhoswen’s neck. Rhoswen, her dearest friend, who smells of woodsmoke, green things, and  _ home _ . 

Rhoswen nods, and Olympia feels a dampness against her own shoulder.

“Yes lethallan, I’m sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me [ on tumblr](http://queenofeden.tumblr.com) or [ twitter](http://twitter.com/queenofeden)!


End file.
